Incomplete
by Katria Bloom
Summary: H/D SLASH. All of Draco's life he had felt...imcomplete.


_This was written two years ago for KJo's birthday, and I thought I would post it to commeriate her birthday this year. _

_Also, ATTENTION TO MY LOVELY, LOYAL FANS: _

_I want to do something for you guys, so...hit me with a prompt. Hit me with a story idea that you have always wanted written or would just think it was funny to see me write it. I love you guys so much and I want to show you that love. Drop me a message, comment, or e-mail with any idea. I'm so thankful for you all, especially everyone who has stuck with me from the beginning. I have so much love for you guys. _

All of Draco Malfoy's life he had felt…incomplete

All of Draco Malfoy's life he has felt…incomplete. Yes. That was the perfect word for it. It is as if part of him is missing, a piece that he never really had to begin with but knows that he must acquire. He doesn't know how he will go about doing so; all he knows is that if he is planning to live a life with any sort of long-lived happiness, he is going to have to find the missing piece of himself.

As Draco Malfoy grows older the feeling becomes more pronounced. The summer before his seventh year of Hogwarts he sits in the library of Malfoy Manor, staring at his mother reading a small, leather-bound book with dainty spectacles.

"Mother, I have something I must ask you about."

She looked up, lowering her spectacles. "Yes, my dragon?"

He winces a bit at the pet name, but presses on. "Do you know anything of…of soul-splitting?"

Her expression seems to harden slightly, and she closes her book. "By what means?"

"Natural," Draco replies, leaning forward. "Say, for example, you feel as though your soul was split in two, and you are sharing it with another person."

Narcissa looks slightly confused, but signals for Draco to continue.

He sighs, furrowing his brow and trying to think of a better way to explain his thought process. "It's just that…I've always felt like something has been missing. There's this…this hollow, empty place inside of me that has always been empty. Maybe, I don't know…maybe someone else has part of my soul, and has been feeling the same way I have all this time. I just…it's as good of an idea as any, mother."

"There is an old Veela myth," Narcissa begins, smoothing her silk dress as she speaks to her son, "that the first Veela made two Faeries, and split a Spirit between them. They released them on different parts of the world, these Faeries, and the Faeries wandered aimlessly, listlessly, for years and years, without purpose, without meaning. Finally, when the Veela began to believe that they would die never reuniting again, the Faeries found each other, and they were made whole again, and the Faerie race was created. Fate is a powerful thing, my dragon, if that is indeed what you are subject to."

Draco can only nod, drop a kiss to his mother's cheek, and go up to his room.

* * *

His final year at Hogwarts starts before he wants it to. He is constantly aching from the loss of something he never had in the first place. He is losing sleep and losing wit, wit that he needs to keep the upper hand on Potter.

Ah Potter. Always Potter. After the rather anticlimactic defeat of Lord Voldemort at the end of sixth year, one would have thought Potter would have cheered up and possibly taken life a little less seriously. That was most obviously not the case. He is an impossibly small, stunted seventeen-year old with what appears to be both a severe eating disorder and even more severe depression.

Not that Draco pays that close of attention to Harry Potter's health, that is. As the resident Boy Wonder, one does tend to take notice when he flounces into the room flanked by The Weasel and The Mudblood.

His head hangs now, little crinkles around his eyes like he is wincing in pain. Sometimes he clenches his side, but Draco thinks he's just milking a 'war wound' so the Weaselette will swoon even more than she usually does, so much that she absolutely gags to let him shag her.

Draco finds himself watching Potter more and more lately, though he's not sure why. He watches Potter, and the ache gets worse.

* * *

He finds him lying very still on the floor by the door. For a second, a split second, Draco is convinced that he is dead, and is even more surprised by the fact that he isn't glad.

Potter's eyes are closed, his hands clenched over his side and his glasses folded beside his head. Draco stands at his feet for a long time before he steps over him and sits Red Indian-style by the side Potter had his hands clenched over. "What's wrong with you?" No witty remarks. Where had his manners gone?

"It hurts," Potter replies simply, his eyes still squeezed closed. "It always hurts."

Draco had the sudden and near-uncontrollable urge to touch Potter, but he doesn't. Instead, he asks, "What hurts?"

Potter doesn't reply, just releases his side and reaches for his glasses, sliding them on. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

He had no answer to that question. He hasn't thought about it, really. Potter knows that; the tired acceptance in his eyes is the perfect indication.

"You know Malfoy," Potter began, his eyes all the more brilliant against the dark circles, "You aren't looking too good yourself. What's wrong with _you_?"

Draco winces at the words, feeling the ache inside him pull and twist and convulse, making him feel nauseous. He stands quickly, leaving Potter in the floor, hoping half-heartedly that someone will step on him.

* * *

After Double Potions with the Gryffindors Draco has to throw up, and he's not the only one, he hears. He stays in his cubicle until he hears the other toilet flush and then he emerges, taking a sink and washing out his mouth, casting a 'Scourgify' on his tongue and splashing his face with the cool water from the tap. He is joined a few stalls away by Potter who washes his mouth out but doesn't cast the spell.

"Who's the father, Potter?" Draco asks, toweling off his face and trying not to look at himself in the mirror. He can't recognize himself anymore. He had been pointy before but _this_…this is ridiculous.

"Probably the same as yours, Malfoy," Potter replies with no real emotion. "As much as I'd love to do this with you now, I've got to go to the library and feign attentiveness with Hermione, and I'd much rather feign attentiveness with her than you, if you don't mind."

With that Potter brushes past him, the slightest touch of Potter's still-damp hand touching Draco's and for some reason Draco catches it, holds on to his hand like it was the only think that mattered in the world.

And as if by magic, and it was, it really was, everything that Draco had ever missed fell into place. His eyes slid closed and so did Potter's and their hands fit together and their chests and their hips and their legs and their souls fit together like they had meant to be together all along. Potter's head tucked under his chin perfectly and his cheek rested on his hair perfectly and it was so perfect that Draco wanted to _cry_.

Draco Malfoy had found his happiness in the middle of a boy's lavatory in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

* * *

All of Draco Malfoy's life he had felt…incomplete. Yes. That was the perfect word for it. It was as if part of him was missing, a piece that he never really had to begin with but knew that he must acquire. He didn't know how he would go about doing so; all he knew is that if he is planning to live a life with any sort of long-lived happiness, he would have to find the missing piece of himself.

Once Draco Malfoy had found the missing piece, a rather awkward-looking bespeckled teenaged boy hero by the name of Harry Potter, he knew he could achieve long-lived happiness. He knew it wouldn't be easy. Potter flat-out refused to tell his friends until he learned a spell that would take away Ron Weasley's violent tendencies towards Draco. Still though, he knew that now the void that he had near-resigned himself to never being filled was overflowing, he was never letting the Boy Who Refused To Die go.

"We live in a beautiful world Draco," Potter would say, a goofy look on his goofy face. "And we are the lucky ones."

Draco would roll his eyes and mutter something about sentimental rubbish, but in his heart he would agree.

_Yes baby, we're the lucky ones._

* * *


End file.
